


Three Days, Two Nights, No Cost

by MarbleAide



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: Apartment exploring, Apartment sharing, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarbleAide/pseuds/MarbleAide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom insists Chris use his apartment while he's in London, even though Tom isn't there. After a little resistance, Chris agrees, though he does get a little curious...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Days, Two Nights, No Cost

**Author's Note:**

> Just a request I filled on Tumblr... enjoy!

It starts off as an argument. And he knows how it ends, he _knows_ , because he can never win against Tom when it comes to this sort of stuff. At a certain point, maybe Chris will learn or maybe he’ll just continue to be stubborn enough to think he could win once—but today is definitely not that day.  

It’s a phone call made in hopes of maybe having lunch one day, dinner, whatever, Chris just wanted to see him, hang out, even if he knew Tom was busy and the last time they talked he might have mentioned an upcoming project, but Chris was hopeful enough to have switched dates around. In the end, Chris is in London and Tom’s in Canada. Still, the conversation doesn’t simply end there because Tom then asks where Chris is stay and soon enough it falls into a long drawn out argument that neither one of them wants to budge on, but it doesn’t really matter because Tom is always the victor. Always.

_It’s not a problem, really, no one’s there and everything’s clean enough and shut up you’re not intruding you idiot, just say yes already you have a spare key anyway!_

Which, yeah, he does, because as soon as Tom mention it he’s looking down at his pocket where the buddle of keys hide—which now feel overly heavy with something close to guilt and, in the end, Chris blames that when he finally does give and says yes.

(Even so, he doesn’t mention to Tom he still has the hotel the studio booked for him, didn’t call it off, because maybe after a day or two these eating dread feelings of invasion will finally get the better of him and he can go to a blank hotel room where his best friend doesn’t keep his entire life.)

When he finally gets there, it’s just as empty as Tom’s said it would be. The lights are all off, curtains drawn, air off and all over is just quiet. It’s eerie. It doesn’t feel right without Tom being here too, because he’s never been in Tom’s flat without him.

For the first night, he doesn’t touch anything or look at anything too long. He orders in, not wanting to use Tom’s kitchen, and makes sure everything is cleaned and thrown out by the time he’s done. He falls asleep on the couch, not daring to even go near Tom’s bedroom, feeling horrible awkward with his feet dangling off the end and the lumpy throw pillows making his neck hurt. In the morning, he packs up everything of his and takes his suitcase with him—just in case—locking the door behind him.

The second night, he’s so tired from filming Chris just crashes on the couch—pillows be damned—asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillows.

On the third night, he finally gives in which is mostly due to the kink in his neck and the cramps in his legs (or so he says to ease the guilt building up in his chest as he opens the bedroom door). Tom’s got a queen with a navy comforter and white sheets. His pillows have matching blue covers to the comforter, though there are two mismatched ones—a black pillows case spreads over one and a gray over the other. Chris uses these two to rest his head, crawling under the sheets that don’t feel freshly laundered, but used and worn in, soft. When he pressing his nose to the pillows upon rolling over, he smells a faint hint of mint and probably something like rosemary which only makes him think of Tom. He smiles stupidly, turning off the lights and falls asleep.

Feeling much more at ease and at home here even without Tom’s presence, Chris starts cooking. On top, the counters look spotless—everything has a place and there is even a color scheme running throughout (black with red accents). He can’t help but snicker, however, when he opens up the cupboards to find the pots and pans skewed about in a manner that leaves Chris wondering how they haven’t all toppled out yet. After a while, Chris finally finds all the utensils and pots he needs enough to make a meal.

Sitting on the couch that night he turns on the tv and puts his feet up on the coffee table. After a little shifting, he finds the most worn down cushions, leans down into them, and knows for a fact this is exactly where Tom must sit every night he’s alone at home exactly like this. It’s the perfect spot to watch television and Chris can just imagine it clear as day—Tom with some bowl of pasta in his hands, wine glass on the table where there are half-faded rings upon the wood (there’s not a coaster in sight) legs stretched out wide along the couch, wearing sweats and one of those soft cotton shirts of his.

Chris smiles while he eats, then goes to bed soon after trying to think of what position Tom likes to sleep in (because he’s already figured out what side he prefers).

On his seventh night there, Chris finally seems to notice the pictures lining the hallway. It’s a small apartment, which isn’t all that surprising, because Tom’s the only one that lives there obviously and Chris guessed he hadn’t noticed much before because the front of the place was so common. It was lived in, obviously, had stupid paintings hanging in the kitchen and living room that Chris and Tom had made fun of before over a couple of beers, joked about Tom’s pretentious taste in art or who in god’s name would give that as a gift—but besides the little knick knack or trinket, there wasn’t anything overly personal you could see upon entering.

The hallway, on the other hand, is lined with pictures. Not too much, nothing that screams ‘overly affectionate’ or ‘crazy’, just pictures that were personal on some level and spread out along the walls in a nice even line.

There were pictures of Tom’s parents, separate ones of them both, and then pictures of his sisters—separate, together, some with all three of them on holidays or family gatherings. They were all nice, pleasant, made Chris run his fingers over the frames to which a layer of dust coated his skin. Chris thought nothing of it, moving to bed.

Then there were the albums. He hadn’t meant to find them, honestly, he was just trying to find a sock he had apparently thrown somewhere and had decided that Tom might not mind if he borrowed a pair for the day, but the drawer he pulled open where not socks. Two big photo albums where what he pulled out instead, starting to flip through them on an impulse and saw Tom’s childhood in the pages— old pictures of his family together, whole, with both parents smiling in the faded frame.

(He knew he shouldn’t look, these were a little more private then he figured Tom was willing to share, and yet his fingers refused to stop flipping through the pages.)

Further through he saw growth—uni years with various friends Chris didn’t recognize, girls Tom looked happy with, clippings and brochures of old plays and projects Tom was a part of. Some of the names where highlighted or circled in pen. He kept flipping and found more photos of his parents, sisters, clippings from their work and more pictures of plays, production, Tom backstage with costars, people Chris didn’t know, looking young and bright eyed and happy.

Opening the second album, Chris found much of the same except later with Tom and Kenneth, him, actors, actresses, and friends ranging from all sorts of projects recent enough that Chris knew most of them. Candid pictures of Tom’s friends and then pictures of them looking pissing or amused and even, when it came time for it, there was the picture of India when she was first born—as tiny as ever wrapped up in the pink blanket, sleeping. It had to have been transferred to the computer and printed from there, the scribbled out words of ‘Chris’s 1st, India Rose!’ in Tom’s hand around the margins. Chris felt a tug in his chest at that, smiling wide as the next two pages had more pictures of her with Elsa, him, Tom. This album, however, wasn’t finished—the last fourth of it or so not yet filled up, so Chris closed it gently and put both back where he found them forgetting all about the need for socks.

It was another accident all together when he stumbled upon Tom’s condom drawer—it was all very usual, really, nothing he hadn’t seen before with two boxes, one open and a few missing, lube, though the addition of a vibrator made him a bit surprised (pushed to the back, which Chris had not actually been looking for at all!) and that night he did go to the hotel to sleep. The pillows didn’t smell like fresh mint or rosemary or anything except standard fabric softener, so Chris tossed and turned all night.

Tom had two types of souvenirs in his flat—the first being more usual and easier to find. In his closet he kept the movie props he was given as gifts, but behind all that in a little box he found the other souvenirs. These ones were from the places he’d been—all the cities they filmed in, interviewed, or locations he traveled on vacation. He had more pictures in here, tourist ones, along with little key chains with whatever city it might be advertised on them and, on them, tied normally with tape a little note of the date and sometimes who Tom was with at the time.

It wasn’t until Chris got to the ones titled ‘Susan, 2011’ that he stopped, shoved the box back in the corner where he found it and swallowed the lump in his throat.

He slept on the couch that night, but really there was little sleep being done.

There’s an old record player in the hall closest and he finds the box of records after a few more minutes of searching—there are some Beatles, The Who, Miles Davis, David Bowie, and a wide variety of very old looking jazz vinyl Chris can’t place the names of.

He cleans the kitchen switching off from the jazz to David Bowie, singing along whenever he can.

By the end of it, he fears he might be ruining Tom’s perfect spot on the couch by sitting in it so much. He’s still not sure which position Tom sleeps in, but it’s probably on his side, one hand under the pillow, facing the window so he wakes up to the warm sun every morning it’s out. Chris has looked through the photo albums twice more, but hasn’t touched the box of key chains again and the dust from the records is almost gone from all of them, smeared away with handle and use. Near the second month of his stay, Chris started showering with Tom’s shampoo, finding it a little concerning with the herby scent started fading away in the sheets (he buys another two bottles for him to make up for it).

Finally, when his filming is wrapping up, Chris cleans up everything he touched or used, leaving the apartment exactly how he’d left it before—kitchen tidy on the top, records put away, bed made with the navy blanket and mismatched pillows—all except for the second photo album, the unfinished one, sitting on the coffee table with a little tab of paper sticking out of it to a page Chris decided to add to.

_Thanks for letting me crash at your place for the while, little bit quiet without you there chatting about and I might have accidentally stumbled upon these (sorry!) figured I’d add a present to make up for it._

Placed in the next open spot lay a picture of two more infants—cuddled up together with little cloth hats, bundled and fast asleep.

 _Tristan and Sasha, March 14 2014_  
Hope you can meet them soon!  
-Chris 


End file.
